All That Lies Between Us
by TVJunkie1013
Summary: An escape. A search. And a new chapter in Michael Scofield and Alex Mahone's story.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **All That Lies Between Us - Part 1  
**Author: **Me  
**Fandom: **Prison Break  
**Pairing: **Michael Scofield/Alex Mahone  
**Prompt: **#75 - shade  
**Rating: **13 - this part.  
**Word Count: **1734  
**Disclaimer: **Nope … I still don't own anything. And if I did, well, let's just say that this pairing would be canon. The lyrics I used throughout this fic are from the following songs: "One by One" by The Calling and "Pictures of You" by The Last Goodnight. They belong to them … respectively.  
**Summary: **An escape. A search. And for Michael and Alex, and new chapter to their story.  
**Warning:** None, really.

* * *

_He stands alone outside the blooming yard.  
All is calm there on the street.  
The shadows pass him hung right over._

Michael Scofield stood in the darkness, cloaked in shadow, and waited. Minutes wove into hours. Yet still, he waited.

Just after midnight, a car rounded the corner; its bright headlights slicing through the darkness like the blade of a ghostly white sword. The garage door began to lift, filling the area with brightness for only a moment, and Michael tucked himself further back into the night. When the vintage, navy blue Mustang rolled passed him and up the driveway, Michael caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. His breath caught as a shaft of light brushed over the driver's face, illuminating the haunted blue eyes.

_The pain on his face he knew he'd keep…_

He'd finally found Alex Mahone. His face held a few more creases and his hair was slightly grayer at the temples, but it was Alex. The door closed, concealing the man from sight, but Michael knew it was him. There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Panic began to overtake him as he was plunged back into darkness. His heart was beating wildly, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Michael's head spun dizzily and he felt as if he might faint. He leaned back against the cool bricks of the house to keep himself from falling to his knees.

Alex.

The last time they'd seen each other had been in Panama. Side by side, they had crawled out of Sona and disappeared into the night. Michael had run, blindly, until he could no longer put one foot in front of the other. He'd stopped and turned, fully expecting to find Alex behind him. But the man was gone.

_How much anger is set aside as each one of us cries?_

Standing there, in the dark, Michael couldn't remember a time, besides in his childhood, when he'd felt more alone. Alex had become such and integral part of his life - first as his pursuer and enemy after the Fox River escape, then as his uneasy confidant/friend in Sona - that he wasn't sure how he felt about the man's sudden disappearance. All Michael knew was that a piece of him had gone missing, leaving a deep, dark hole in its place. A hole that Michael knew he'd have to fill.

But, he had more important responsibilities to take care of first.

Linc, LJ and Sucre had to be safe. Michael lead them to the place he'd set up. Stayed with them until he was sure they would be okay. Then, as he was walking out the door, promised them that he'd be back someday.

That very day, he began his search for Alex Mahone.

_So, who's the man, with the plan, eating up all that he can?  
Don't you see, don't you see... _

He started by doing what he did best - researching. Through newspaper articles he found on the internet, Michael learned that Ex-FBI agent Alexander Mahone had disappeared during an escape attempt from Sona prison in Panama. According to a friend and former co-worker, Agent Felicia Lang, Agent Mahone was presumed dead. There had been memorial services in both Chicago and Colorado for him. Officially, Alex was gone.

However, Michael knew better. He dug deeper; utilizing every tool at his disposal, legal and illegal, and it had taken him almost ten months, but he finally stumbled upon the information he needed. Through an Abruzzi connection, Michael found out that Agent Lang had somehow managed to find Alex after the escape and sneak him back into the US. She set him up with a new identity and a new life. With the information in hand, Michael hired a private investigator.

Three weeks later, Michael stood just outside a small house in Hidalgo, New Mexico.

The name on the mailbox was "Mike Reegan." Mr. Reegan was 47 years old, approximately six feet tall, 175 pounds with ice-blue eyes and sandy blond hair. He was a skilled landscaper, who worked extremely long hours, and didn't socialize much. When he was home, he was either in the garage fixing up his 1969 Mustang, or he was in his basement. He was friendly, but not overly so. The man seemed to be very content in his solitary life.

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture that had been given to him. Mike Reegan bore a striking resemblance to Alex Mahone. However, Michael couldn't be entirely sure until he actually saw the man face to face.

The moment he'd seen those eyes, even in the dark, Michael knew this man was Alex.

_Tied tight, can't see out your eyes that he's sure to shine, sure to shine,  
in this deep, dark, fucked up, played out, reality show. _

Michael sighed and pushed himself away from the house. It was time.

The lock picking kit weighed heavily in his front pocket. He removed it and pulled out the correct tools for this particular lock. A few twists, a couple of clicks, and it popped open. Michael was surprised at how easily he'd been able to pick this lock. Considering Alex was ex-FBI, he'd expected the house to be sealed tight. Then again, if the world thought Alex Mahone was dead, why would he need to worry about locks? After all, who would be looking for him?

Michael felt a grin spreading across his features.

Slowly, slowly he turned the knob and pushed the door inward. He slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him. With a turn of his fingers, the door was quickly relocked. The house was almost pitch black; the only light being slivers of moonlight that managed to slip in from around windows that were heavily draped. Michael waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, then he began to move forward through the house.

Each room was exactly as he'd expected to find in Alex's home. Impeccably decorated, but not with expensive items. Very masculine. Minimal furniture, all of it dark leather. There were a few carefully chosen paintings hung on walls. Rugs thrown here or there; wherever one was needed. No knickknacks. No clutter.

Everything had its place. And was in its place.

Just like his apartment had been. Before he'd gone to Fox River.

He wandered into the kitchen, and again, Michael felt as if he'd somehow been magically placed into his own home. Stainless steel appliances glimmered in the dark. Pristine white tiles covered the floor. Obsidian-colored granite countertops wrapped around half the room. A round, wrought iron, glass-topped table was the centerpiece of the room. Everything felt so familiar. Even the leather coat hanging on the back of one chair fit the picture.

Granted, in his home, the coats had been expensive wool instead of battered leather, but the similarity was, nonetheless, striking.

_Do you ever think that things are meant to be? _

As Michael trailed his fingers over the smooth, still-warm material of Alex's jacket, the soft sound of music caught his attention. He turned to his right and saw a door. It was cracked open, slightly, and there was a yellow glow peeking out from around it. Panic once again threatened to overtake him, but Michael simply inhaled deeply and focused on the song that was playing. He recognized it immediately, but couldn't remember the name or the artist who sang it. He listened to the lyrics and found himself becoming enthralled with them.

_Confess to me, every secret moment, every stolen promise you believed.  
Confess to me, all that lies between us, all that lies between you and me._

_We are the boxers in the ring. We are the bells that never sing._  
_There is a title we can't win no matter how hard we might swing._

Michael released his breath and slowly pulled the door open. His eyes recoiled from the semi-bright light and he waited for them to recover before starting down the stairs. He stepped on each one lightly, creeping forward soundlessly, hugging the wall in front of him as if he were a part of it. When he reached the bottom, he peeked his head around the corner and what he saw startled him.

_Pictures of you, pictures of me. Hung upon your wall for the world to see.  
Pictures of you, pictures of me. Remind us all of what we could have been._

The far wall was covered with photos of him; of his tattoo. Yellow post-it notes peppered the mostly black-and-white mosaic, and again, Michael felt that familiar de'ja vous he'd been having since he'd set foot inside this house.

It was as if he were looking at the wall in his apartment. Only here, the pictures showed the completed plan. There were no blueprints. No articles about Abruzzi or D.B. Cooper. Or Sara. There was only him. Him and his tattoo.

_Pictures of you, pictures of me. Hung upon your wall for the world to see.  
Pictures of you, pictures of me. Remind us all of what we used to be._

Michael shivered. He shook away his ghosts and forced himself to take in the rest of the small room. It was nothing like the rest of the house. There was a desk; a large wooden monstrosity that filled almost half the available space. It was strewn with paper and folders and photos. In one corner was a metal file cabinet, the drawers ajar with dog-eared corners of files sticking out of them. A small white dorm fridge with an old stereo sitting atop it, occupied the other. Between them, was a battered suede loveseat. A blanket and pillow had been tossed, haphazardly, onto it.

Behind the desk, was a well-worn, high-backed black leather chair. It rocked slightly, back and forth as a pair of long, muscled legs, clad in faded blue denim, stretched out from the front of it. Scuffed brown boots tapped along to the beat of the music.

Michael took another deep, calming breath, and released it as slowly as he could. He stepped off the bottom stair and into the light.

"Well, it looks like I'm not the only one who can't seem to let go of the past."

"Michael," the man said without turning.

"Hello, Alex."

_One by one, we start to come undone... _

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **All That Lies Between Us - Part 2  
**Author: **Me  
**Fandom: **Prison Break  
**Pairing: **Michael/Mahone  
**Rating: **13 - this part.  
**Disclaimer: **Nope … I still don't own anything. And if I did, well, let's just say that this pairing would be canon. The lyrics I used throughout this fic are from the following song: "When Your Heart Stops Beating" by +44. They belong to them.  
**Author's Note:** Obviously I wrote this story BEFORE season 4. So in this world that season never happened and Scylla never existed. Sorry ... it's a short chapter. Oh, and I absolutely LOVE feedback :)

* * *

_A little something just to take off the edge.  
A little more and I'll fall off the planet entirely._

* * *

"How did you find me, Michael? It's not like I made elaborate prison break plans, then had them tattooed on my body, pretended to rob a bank, which got me thrown into that prison – in which my brother was conveniently being held on death row. Where, of course, the tattoo was photographed for my file, essentially leaving a convenient map for you to figure out and follow … now did I?"

"That's funny, Alex. But, no. That's not what happened." Michael chuckled softly. "Let's just say that I have ways of finding whatever it is I need," he paused and cocked his head to the side, his lips curling up into a smirk. "Or … want. You, of all people, should understand how adaptable, how … resourceful I can be."

"Mmmm hmmmm," Alex muttered, "very true. I do know that about you. Among other things …"

His words trailed off, and Alex leaned forward to trace his finger over one of the pictures on his wall. A picture of Michael's tattoo. Then the chair spun and, for the first time in well over a year, the men were face to face.

Michael inhaled sharply at the sight of his former adversary. Alex was deeply tanned; no doubt from working long hours in the blazing New Mexico sun. And even though it was taking an obvious toll on his skin, the coloring gave him a healthy glow. His brilliant blue eyes, still as sharp as a hawk's, sparkled brightly within his bronzed face. Michael released his breath in a slow, measured exhale.

"You look good, Alex. Rested," he admitted quietly.

"Yeah," Alex twitched slightly.

Michael had seen that before. Many times actually. Alex was obviously not using. Michael knew Alex well enough to know that the man was very high strung. Paranoid. Nervous. And that he twitched unless he was taking his meds.

"Better than you did the last time I saw you."

"Heroin withdrawal will do that to a person."

"I imagine so." Michael studied him for a moment. "No Varatril either?"

Alex twitched again, then sighed deeply.

"Not that it's any of your concern, but no. I've been clean since we escaped. I needed a clear head." Alex clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face jutting out like chiseled stone. "But you aren't here to check up on my drug use."

"No. I'm not."

"I noticed that you've decided to add breaking and entering to your list of crimes, Michael. I figured that after Sona, you would've given up that sort of thing? Turned over a new leaf?"

"I don't know that it would be in your best interest to be comparing rap sheets with me, Alex." Michael reached up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If I remember correctly, yours is pretty impressive. Let's see … murder, attempted murder, attempted drug smuggling," he ticked off each offense on his fingers, raising his eyes on the final one. He almost laughed when he saw Alex's jaw tighten even further with anger. "Am I forgetting anything? Oh wait … you escaped from a prison on foreign soil, while aiding and abetting a known felon who was escaping with you. Is that it? Any more crimes I should add to the list?"

"Why are you here, Michael?" Alex snapped sharply, then sighed again.

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

"Well," Alex stood, reaching behind him as he moved; eyes never leaving Michael's. He pulled the gun out from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it directly at Michael. "Unless you're here to get shot, then I guess I don't know _your_ answer, because that's certainly _my_ answer."

"Oh Alex," Michael laughed again. He took a few steps forward, then circled behind the desk, closing the distance between them. When he reached the older man, Michael leaned in so the cold steel of Alex's Glock was pressed against his chest, directly over his heart. "You don't want to kill me. You've never wanted to kill me. I know it. And you know it."

"Is that so?" Alex questioned, his blue eyes flashing with challenge. "And what makes you say that?"

"The past." Michael murmured, his own tone soft and soothing. He took another step forward. "Do you realize," he placed his hand on Alex's extended forearm and traced the length of it with his fingertips. The muscles flexed instinctively beneath his touch. "Just how many times you've pointed this very weapon at me?" His eyes dropped to the gun, then slid slowly back to Alex's face. "And you've never pulled that trigger."

Michael's hand continued to move over the man's bicep and up to his shoulder. It came to a rest at the nape of Alex's neck and Michael could feel goosebumps rising on the hot skin beneath his palm. It felt like braille against his soft fingertips. He leaned in even further, ignoring the pain as the muzzle dug into his chest. Michael brushed his lips over the former agent's ear.

"Not even once. And your little … _display_ on that wall back there," his tongue flicked out and he licked Alex's earlobe. The man shuddered and Michael smiled. "Proves my point even more. You've been looking for me, just like I've been looking for you. And I can tell you with absolute certainty, that even though I should want to, I am not here to kill you. But," he whispered, releasing Alex's neck and backing away slightly. Michael had to quickly swallow a laugh. Alex was blinking rapidly; his chest was heaving, his fingers ghost white from gripping the Glock far too tightly. Instead of chuckling, he threw his arms out to the side in surrender. "If shooting me is what you _actually _want to do, here I am, Alex. I have no weapons. I'm completely defenseless. Go ahead. Shoot me."

Their eyes locked together. Blue on green. Neither man moved a muscle. Electric tension crackled between them. The air grew heavy and hot. Charged and suffocating. Both could feel the pressure building. Michael saw Alex searching his eyes for something. Anything. He opened his expression; making his intentions … his desires … as transparent as he could. In response, Alex tipped his head to the side and flicked his tongue out to wet his dry lips.

Before Michael knew what was happening, Alex's free hand shot out and wrapped into his shirt. He was jerked forward and spun on his feet. The moment Michael's back slammed into the wall, Alex's hand was at his throat. His long, lithe fingers wrapped around him tightly; squeezing, squeezing, until darkness began to creep in at the edges of Michael's vision. Alex's other hand still held the gun, and now he pressed it to Michael's forehead. In the exact spot where he'd promised to put the shank when they were in Sona. That fact was not lost on Michael. He pried at Alex's fingers, unsuccessfully, and his lungs began to ache as they were deprived of air. The bones in his legs felt as if they were turning into jelly. He knew he was losing consciousness and was beginning to slide down the wall, but Alex's grip on his throat kept him upright and in place.

Maybe it had been a mistake … finding and coming to see Alex Mahone. Maybe he was wrong. Had been wrong all along.

Then, Alex's lips slammed forcefully down onto his. So forcefully, in fact, that Michael's head struck the wall behind him. Hard. Bright white spots popped up in front of his eyes, momentarily chasing away the darkness and bringing him fully conscious. Alex punished his mouth; kissing, licking, biting everywhere and anywhere he could. As Michael gasped for breath, Alex pushed his tongue into his mouth. Again, he felt himself collapsing into darkness, but the other man hauled him back up, shoving one of his knees between Michael's thighs.

There was an audible 'pop' when Alex finally broke away from him.

"I _should_ kill you, Michael," Alex hissed against his cheek. "You are the reason I'm _here_. The reason why I can't be with my family." His impossibly strong hold tightened. "Everything inside of me is screaming for me to end this. Just snap your neck and be done with you. Or put a bullet in your head with this fucking gun!" Alex released his grip, but, with the full weight of his body, kept Michael pressed into the wall. Sweet air rushed into his lungs as he choked and gasped. Alex's head dropped to Michael's shoulder and he nuzzled against the younger man's neck. Michael shuddered when he felt the man's tongue sliding over the rapidly forming purple bruises.

"God help me, Michael, I should kill you," he pulled the gun away from Michael's head and threw it to the floor. It clattered loudly as it hit the back wall. "But … I can't."

* * *

_I'll be there when your heart stops beating.  
I'll be there when your last breath's taken away.  
In the dark when there's no one listening.  
In the times when we both get carried away._

TBC


End file.
